


All The King's Men

by robotfvckers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Human Zenyatta, M/M, Phone Sex, Stockings, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 19:42:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11675793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: Zenyatta attends a college in Numbani and meets one of its most famous alumnus.





	All The King's Men

**Author's Note:**

> For Akanday2017!

****Zenyatta drinks coffee.

The taste is a newly acquired comfort, and it fills his stomach better than water. He reviews his presentation while he sips, mouthing the words, visualizing the next hour in his mind. He glances at the clock; if he leaves now, he will have fifteen minutes to prepare.

Zenyatta hesitates, index finger tapping on the mouse as he watches the cursor blink. He checks his account balance and finishes his nearly cold coffee in one long pull.

Zenyatta will deal with each obstacle as it comes, as he has always done.

* * *

The presentation is a success. The crowd is larger than he thought it would be, and even though he is not a great orator like Mondatta, he receives enthusiastic applause. His professor tells him that there were influential people in the crowd, that it might have been the most important presentation of his life. Zenyatta tips his head in a bow and thanks him with a smile.

There are many more important things than academic excellence, but perhaps this will grant him the stepping stone he needs to become more empowered, more able to help others, to help turn his brother’s dream into reality.

* * *

“What?” Zenyatta murmurs, staring wide-eyed at the cashier. She’s already gesturing to the person behind him.

“Your card has been declined. Next.”

Zenyatta steps back and ignores the looks of disdain. Dread twists his stomach; there had been enough this morning.

He thinks about every purchase he made within the last two weeks. Soap. A used book. Thread to fix his suit, purchased with pinched pennies at the second hand store on the other side of town. He rarely buys things, instead pilfering supplies from recycling, loaning from friends who pass along their extras. It was hard to ask, and kindness was rarely found in people that had never known need. Each time he is met with pity or coldness, it chips away at him. Mondatta warned about pridefulness, but it is a hard habit to break, even now.

His stomach rumbles.

“Mr. Tekhartha?”

A large, warm weight descends on his shoulder.

Zenyatta turns to face a purple tie neatly tucked into a three piece charcoal suit. He has to look up to meet the man’s eyes, sharp but cordial. The man smiles. Zenyatta’s heartbeat quickens.

“I am Akande Ogundimu. I was at your presentation today.” He extends his hand; the intricate prosthetic draws Zenyatta’s gaze. “You performed splendidly.”

“Thank you.” Zenyatta responds softly as he shakes Akande’s hand. The Akande Ogundimu. A university legend. A _Numbani_ legend. The man smiles wider, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“A firm handshake. Excellent.” He glances around as if remembering where they are. “I was hoping you could tell me more about your idea for expanding Numbani’s residential areas as it factors into the current twenty year plan. Perhaps over lunch? My treat, of course.”

Zenyatta stares, awestruck, knowing he must look foolish as Akande waits for a response. Such an offer is above him, but the thought of food and good company is too difficult to decline.

“Mr. Ogundimu, I...I would be honored.” Zenyatta breathes, a feverish line of heat prickling along his spine as the man laughs.

“Wonderful! Please, call me Akande.”

* * *

Zenyatta experiences many firsts that day. He rides in a luxury hovercraft, dines at the most expensive restaurant in the city, tastes wine at Akande’s insistence even though he is not old enough to drink.

They speak of Zenyatta’s presentation; Akande peppers in his own thoughts, asks Zenyatta questions, but mostly he listens. The topic shifts to more personal matters, where Zenyatta came from, his brother, the shambali.

He assumed Akande would eat more finely, but he orders a modest portion, cutting his rare steak into precise morsels as Zenyatta eats spiced vegetables over a bed of rice. It is impossible to finish; he could stretch the food for two more meals.

“Is it not to your liking?” Akande asks as Zenyatta settles his utensils at the edge of his plate.

He is slow to answer, the warm buzz of wine softening his thoughts, the pleasure of a full stomach dizzying.

“No, it was delicious. I am simply unaccustomed to eating so much rich cuisine.” A half-truth.

Akande hums as he sets his elbows on the table and interlaces his fingers.

“And this is due to your monastic lifestyle?”

“I do not follow the asceticism of the shambali, though their teachings have shaped me into who I am. I find myself leaning on them more and more the longer I am away from home.”

“Oh? Have your brothers and sisters taught you more than just a mindset?” Akande asks as he motions for the check. “I hear they have their own school of martial arts.”

Zenyatta grins. “Indeed they do. I am also aware of your proficiency in that area.”

Akande smirks a little lopsidedly. “Yes, it was my dream, once.” He glances down at the table. “The professional arena is only a fond memory now. However, I would love to see a demonstration of the shambali style.”

Warmed by drink and attention, Zenyatta agrees without hesitation.

* * *

Zenyatta slips out of his suit jacket and folds it carefully, then removes his tie. He unbuttons his collar and the plain cufflinks at his wrists, hesitating a moment before removing his shoes and socks.

Anticipation replaces the half-drunken haze of their meal. He takes a breath, stretches, finally turning towards the sparring area.

He nearly swallows his tongue as he watches Akande pull an arm over his shoulder, naked from the waist up, body long and drawn taut.

“Just a little more time. I am not as nimble as I was in my youth.”

Zenyatta quickly looks away, face heating.

“I have a hard time believing so.”

He thought his opponent would be one of the bodyguards. It is entirely different to watch Akande himself stretch and flex each muscle as fluid and built as someone half his age. There was no denying Akande cut a gorgeous figure, especially now in his own element, moving as fluidly as a warrior.

“Alright. I am ready.” Akande calls, and Zenyatta steps into fighting range. He thanks his brother for his training; at the very least he can center his mind before he embarrasses himself.

Zenyatta sinks into stance, eyes wandering, and he tells himself he is focusing on the way Akande moves, anticipating his first strike, rather than drinking in the jut of his hip or the full swell of his chest.

“Come at me.”

Zenyatta does.

They fight quickly, the bodyguards calling points as they step around each other. Akande moves like rapids, forceful and unyielding, but Zenyatta flows like a calm stream, stepping over his feet, rolling beneath punches, redirecting the larger man’s swings to unbalance him. It works sometimes, and even once too well when Zenyatta plants his foot behind Akande’s pivoting ankle. The man tips with a grunt, fingers fisting in Zenyatta’s shirt as he lands flat on his back.

Zenyatta yelps when he collides with the thick slab of Akande’s chest, winded. The man is sweltering, his warmth bleeding through his sweat-damp clothes. So close, Zenyatta breathes in his smell: sweat and sandalwood and heady spice.

He sits up a moment too late, thighs framing Akande’s waist, nearly too large to straddle. Zenyatta sucks in another shallow sound when he sees Akande’s fist still bunched in his shirt, the top buttons popped and lost in the tumble.

“Apologies.” Akande murmurs, staring at Zenyatta like he is not pinned and beaten. He looks comfortable beneath him, sweat slick and flushed and most decidedly pleased.

If Zenyatta stands too hurriedly, Akande does not mention it, though Zenyatta is sure the heat from his blush can be felt as well as seen.

They continue sparring, but never does Zenyatta manage to best him, thoughts muddled by the feeling of Akande’s heat radiating against his body.

A phone call marks the end of their match. Zenyatta stands awkwardly, rumpled and a bit worse for wear, while Akande answers on the final ring. Belatedly he realizes he has ruined his outfit.

Akande ends the call and turns to Zenyatta.

“I had great fun today.” His eyes flicker below Zenyatta’s chin, watching for a moment like they are still sparring. Zenyatta fights to stay still beneath his gaze. “But I have made quite the mess of you.” He extends his hand. “Please, take my number. It would be dishonorable to not replace what I have ruined.”

Zenyatta raises his hands to refuse, but Akande’s eyes narrow, sharpened with stubbornness, and the protest dies on his lips.

Without a word, Zenyatta hands him his old flip phone. Akande spares it a single glance before signaling to one of his bodyguards.

“The extra for Mr. Tekhartha.”

The bodyguard procures a HoloLife V7 from her back pocket. It’s without its packaging, but the phone has an untouched finish, brand new. Akande swipes his own HoloLife over it before extending the new phone to Zenyatta.

“Please. A gift for humoring me this afternoon.”

Zenyatta stares at the shining phone clasped within Akande’s hand, mouth suddenly dry. He shakes his head. He has never been offered anything so fancy in his life.

“I cannot possibly accept this. It is much too expensive.”  

The dry, rough warmth of Akande’s hand startles him as it slides along his wrist. He urges Zenyatta’s hand forward, palm up, so gently Zenyatta can do nothing but move with the touch.

“I insist.” The cool rounded corners of the device slide into the curve of his palm. Then Akande retreats, leaving only the electric afterimage trembling along his skin.

“I will be in touch.”

Akande has turned away, suit jacket and shirt tucked under one massive arm, before Zenyatta remembers himself.

“Thank you. For everything.” Zenyatta tips his head in a shaky bow, fingers grasping the phone tight within his shaking hands.

Akande’s gentle laughter rings in his ears as the man departs.

“The pleasure was all mine, Zenyatta.”

* * *

Zenyatta stares at his phone as he eats leftovers the following morning. It is a quarter past six. Normally he would be meditating, but mindful focus would not come. He eats his food cold, enjoying the texture, chewing slowly, savoring the sensation of fullness. He does not think of how he will feel in a few hours as he swallows the last morsel, sighing and content.

He slips his phone in his back pocket. Then his front. He checks it once, balances it in one hand. He adds what few contacts he has to the address book, heart skipping when he notices Akande’s number is already saved. He texts Mondatta, fumbling over the keys, unused to the touch screen.

_This is Zenyatta. I have a new number._

It is not a lie. He knows Mondatta will suspect, but he isn’t sure how to broach the subject. Zenyatta worries his lip.

His phone beeps.

_Akande._

_Call if you need anything. I will be by after your last class to deliver what I promised. In the meantime, I have added something to your account. Spend it how you see fit._

Zenyatta rereads the message three times, stares at the last sentence, lets it sink into his mind.

_Spend it how you see fit._

* * *

“I will only be a moment. Please make yourself comfortable.”

Akande steps out of the office, the door closing behind him with a decisive click. Zenyatta stares at the holopad on Akande’s desk.

It is difficult to see from his seat, situated as he is in a plush chair on the other side of the large wooden desk. He leans forward and peers at the mirrored image that glows like the blush hastily coloring his cheeks.

The model is slight, her slender thighs ever so gently indented where the dark stockings cut a drastic line against her skin. The stockings are cute and feminine with the outline of cat ears and face staring back at him.

He clenches the fabric of his slacks, mind racing. Akande had never mentioned a lover. Unbidden, he remembers the large hand upon his shoulder, the hot, heaving body beneath him, Akande’s mischievous smile as he gracefully accepted defeat.

The door opens, and Zenyatta straightens, unclenches his hands, hoping that he looks unaffected by the time Akande returns to his seat.

“Thank you for waiting.” Akande says; Zenyatta stares at his hands as the man unbuttons his suit jacket to sit.

“It is no trouble at all.”

Akande swipes the image from his holopad without a second glance.

It’s hard to focus as the conversation shifts, even after he leaves Akande’s company, even after he returns to his own room and lies sleepless in his small bed.

Zenyatta attempts meditation first. The kata are no less difficult to perform, especially when the memory of huge arms bracketing him, catching against his body as he dodged and evaded, will not leave his mind.

Frustrated and sweating, Zenyatta reaches for his own holopad, and as shame burns in his guts, he makes a purchase of his own.

* * *

He forces himself sit through an entire day of classes, doesn’t return to the sanctity of his room until every other task complete. The box sits innocently outside his door; he retrieves it, fumbling his hand over the sensor at the door in his haste.

Even then, Zenyatta doesn’t open it immediately. He sets the box down on his bed, stares at it as he undresses, removing his sensible socks and shoes, his faded slacks. He feels warm and shivery as he slips his boxers down his legs, lower body exposed to the slightly cool room.

He sighs, willing his heartbeat to slow as his hand settles on the box’s sensor, thumbprint unlocking it with a pneumatic hiss.

Seeing it in person steals his breath.

It is not quite the same, but it is close enough, cheap enough for the small budget Zenyatta allows himself of Akande’s endless purse. A shameful, secret purchase, the only unneeded thing he had ever bought with Akande’s money.

He reaches with shaking fingers to touch along the neatly folded stockings, silky soft and dark. He pulls one from the box in a dream-like haze. The fabric catches against his legs, gripping each curve, somehow settling perfectly at mid-thigh, skin gently dimpling at its seam.

Zenyatta dares not look at the mirror against the wall, instead threads his other leg into the remaining stocking, stares at his feet, his legs, cock bumping against the edge of his sweater vest as it swells.

He holds his mouth, embarrassed by his own audacity, and drags a quaking, heated hand down his thigh, catching against the fabric, squeezing the soft, bunched skin at the top of the stocking, swallowing his own whimpers.

Zenyatta does not look at the last article of clothing before shifting it up his quaking legs, barely able to stand. He bites his lip, tucks his cock into the soft silk of the cheeky lace panties that catch beneath his hips.

His breathing rings in his ears, sweat beading along his brow. He has never felt so filthy, so ashamed, so amorous.

It feels like an eternity before he drags his gaze across the floor to the mirror.

This is what he sees: his double, flushed from cheek to neck, sweater vest rumpled, his lower half a sinful palette of warm skin and black fabric. His eyes trace the slice of thigh between stocking and panty, mesmerized, unable to believe he’s viewing his own body. His cock is one obscene line between his hips, eagerly darkening the fabric with his own excitement.

He bites his fist. His other, traitorous hand traces along his neck and over his clothed collar bone.

His nipples tighten, swell past the flesh that normally hides his tender, shy nipples. He teases one newly exposed peak, traces it, the fabric shifting, catching against it, not enough. He gropes himself meanly then, eagerly, pinching and twisting, groaning hard into his hand, muffling his needy sounds against his teeth.

He rips off the rest of his normal clothes in his desire, tugging his nipples again, staring with shameful intensity at his body in the mirror, reacting, flushing, twitching.

It’s impossible to control himself, fabric catching against his cock, so wet and warm he feels crazed, like a being possessed. Zenyatta slips his hand low, just teasing against the outline of his cock, not letting himself pull the fabric down, not yet. Groping himself.

His hands are long and lithe, and he wishes, wonders of hands much larger than his own, calloused, one synthetic and one flesh and blood, stroking over his body.

The phone rings.

Zenyatta startles; Akande’s name flashes on the screen.

He reaches for the phone, hand hovering over the glowing machine. He accepts the call with a shaking press.

“Zenyatta.”

Zenyatta shivers, his name rolling off the man’s tongue husky and rich and it’s all in his head, his delusions, but he wants Akande, yearns to see the man beneath him, pinning him down, being overpowered, overpowering him—

Akande clears his throat.

“Y—I am here.” Zenyatta mumbles, unable to drag his eyes away from his reflection, free hand drawing circles against his stomach, plucking his stockings, little shocks of want and heat licking along his skin.

He shouldn’t. He knows better.

“I would like to meet. An associate of mine will be in town.” Akande says, and Zenyatta hangs onto every word, the warm cadance, the pleasant sound caressing down his spine.

Zenyatta worries his lip, hums, hand squirming over his trembling stomach, teasing the hem of his panties, carding through the scant hair beneath his belly.

“He was interested in what I told him about you. Good things, of course.” Akande continues. Zenyatta’s fingers dip, skirting the edge of his silk-covered cock, wet, so needy. It would take no time at all. Just a few quick jerks into the channel of his hand, and it would be over.

“Zenyatta?”

He shoves his hand against his cock, grinding into his palm, whimper nearly escaping his lips.

“Y-yes?” Zenyatta says, throatier than he means, almost falling to pieces with how close he is, teasing himself, hearing his name again and again from Akande’s lips. His hips shift in aborted little jerks, and this time a gasp escapes before he can stop himself.

“You have my permission.” Akande murmurs, heavy with promise.

Zenyatta stares dumbly at his phone and into the narrow, heated eyes of Akande Ogundimu.

A video call.

He should apologize. Hang up, sink into the floor and never leave his room again, but as the moments tick by, body aflame and teetering on edge, unable to withdraw from the precipice of his own undoing, Akande strikes the final blow.

“I want to see it.” Akande murmurs, tilting his head to the side. A challenge. “Your face lost to pleasure.” He smiles like he’s won.

Zenyatta moans, high and startled, eyes wide, lips parted and bite-swollen. He shakes his head, unable to stop himself now that he is exposed, not when he is so close, so awash in pleasure beneath the man’s hungry gaze.

“Come, Zenyatta. Do not hold back.”

He grips himself, hard and mean, fucking shallowly against his hot, sweat-slick palm; it takes only a few more whispered words of encouragement, his name rolling so easily off Akande’s tongue as the man gives him everything. Zenyatta pitches forward, gasping brokenly before choking on a silent cry as he spills inside the silk, feels each pulse ooze against the fabric, saturating it, slicking his hand.

When he finally opens his eyes again, catches his breath, Akande is still watching, looking every bit as haughty and confident as he did the day he met him. Untouched and unpleasured but still undoubtedly victorious.

“Now.” Akande says. “I want to see the rest of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


End file.
